


for you, you hungry thing.

by gingerteaandsympathy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Past Character Death, magic that isn't... canon, my usual nonsense, unnecessary descriptions of food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: It wasn’t the sort of thing Fred could describe: not hunger, exactly. But craving, certainly. And the food always tasted better when his mum made it.She'd once said that her secret ingredient was Love. And he, young as he was and little as he understood, knew it for truth.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 40
Kudos: 168





	for you, you hungry thing.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, friends. the world is rough, so i thought i'd pour a little tenderness into it and share my nonsense with you.
> 
> i can't take credit for the idea of tasting emotion in food, though i'm not sure exactly who i'd give credit _to._ i stumbled across it multiple places, seemingly all at once, quite some time ago. but i wanted to try it out here, and i hope you enjoy it.
> 
> title borrowed from the poem _the love cook_ by ron padgett.
> 
> a warning: in this fic, i talk a lot about food and someone's relationship with it. though there is no disordered eating or conflict of that nature, i want to be as sensitive as i can. if descriptions of food or discussions of eating habits are triggering for you, i would absolutely recommend you skip this one. no hard feelings. and i'll give you a little spoiler, just so you don't miss out... they live happily ever after.

He'd been a ravenous child.

He can remember sitting at the massive oak table with everyone crowded around him. Limbs bumping limbs, feet kicking spindly chair legs. He can remember the grip of the fork in his small fist, the anticipation on his tongue, the promise of rich, familiar flavours that would burst over his undeveloped palate like an overripe berry. He’d never had to explain it to anybody, because nobody noticed—they were all hungry. They all ate well. And if he ate more than the others, more vigorously, it usually went unremarked.

His mum loved cooking; it was the best and easiest love language for a woman like her to speak in a house full of mouths to feed.

He used to sneak into the kitchen while she made the family meals—breakfast, lunch, dinner, it didn’t matter: all of them were family meals. He’d listen to her humming over the pots and pans, wand tip moving in precise little shapes. She was good at household charms, his mum, particularly those of a culinary sort. And there was an efficiency to her movements that made them easy to follow.

Easy to follow, but hard to replicate. He’d tried.

Her food was just _better._ He could chalk it up to years of experience, decades of pork pies and roasted vegetables and homemade jams, all adding up to a wealth of ability that could not be cheated or faked, even with the most complex of wand tricks. But he knew that wasn’t it—wasn’t really _why_ the food tasted better when she made it.

He would steal small bites—a salt-boiled potato, so hot it burned his little fingers; the corner of a buttery pastry, crumbling so sweetly in his palm; a rasher of bacon, crispy and coating his lips in oily fat. He got good at darting in and out, keeping quiet, ducking under his mum’s trailing wand when she wasn’t looking, only eating his spoils when he was safely out of sight. Eyes closed, lashes fluttering in unreserved joy. Sometimes, he’d share his stolen goods with George, and his twin would grin and shake his head.

He appreciated the snacks and scavenging, of course, but he didn’t really understand.

“Don’t know why you’re losing your head, Freddie,” George would say. “S’just a bit of steak and kidney pie.” Just a bit of jammy egg on toast. Just a bit of fried tomato. Just a bit of cheese sandwich. Just a bit of fresh apple pie, the crust so crisp and hot that his tongue would curl. Maybe George understood that one a bit better. But still, it was just a bite of food.

It wasn’t the sort of thing Fred could describe: not hunger, exactly. But craving, certainly. And the food always tasted better when his mum made it.

She'd once said that her secret ingredient was Love. And he, young as he was and little as he understood, knew it for truth.

Hogwarts was a bit of a shock after that.

Of course, the food was fine enough, and one could hardly complain about the quantity. There was always plenty for everyone—and there was tremendous variety, enough to put even his mum’s own well-laid table to shame. A bouffage. A spreadation. An abundance.

Brown, buttered toast with kippers. Pancakes and waffles with berries and bacon and gallons of syrup. Porridge, positively dripping with honey and chopped walnuts. Scones full of every sort of fruit, a vibrant assortment on one giant tray. Clotted cream and marmalade in little silver bowls with little silver spoons. Orange juice and apple juice, currant and grape and pumpkin and pomegranate. Bread, in loaves and knots and rolls. Fresh coffee and hot tea, and heaping bowls of white sugar, sparkling like snow-capped mountains.

And that was only breakfast.

But there was something missing. From the food, from the table—he found himself looking for flavours he couldn't describe. Not acid or tartness or sweetness or salt, but something else. Something earthier, beneath the well-balanced blend of spice and skill that made up each dish. It was something that his mother seemed to put into her cooking by virtue of her very _being._

Fred lost his appetite. Or, he lost his enthusiasm—it was hard to say. He ate and he ate well, but it was only after quidditch, when he’d worked up a proper sweat and his muscles were aching with use, that he got truly hungry. And though it wasn’t quite like before, he could still shovel down great, heaping forkfuls of food. Each bite of roasted turkey and mashed yams tasted a little like satisfaction.

He thought the house elves must take pride in their work in the kitchens; it certainly tasted like they did.

The mealtime entertainment, however, was just as good as home—if not better. Everywhere, people who were ripe for the pranking. Furtive giggles over pudding. And the occasional display to rival the dramatics of all his siblings put together.

Down the table, Hermione Granger sometimes berated his youngest brother about his appalling table manners. Told him he was _not_ a child anymore, and that talking with his mouth full was not only inexcusable, but _disgusting._

She did it with such vigor and venom that the entire table took notice. But then, they took notice of everything she did; it could hardly be helped. The witch did less than nothing to try to fit in. She was her own self, even when that self was strident and swotty.

Once, she threatened to overturn a gravy tureen, right onto Ron's “stupid, swollen head.” She'd said it with such a menacing tone that he half expected the tureen to start obediently levitating, only waiting for her command to be upended.

Fred had grinned and taken a gargantuan bite of shepherd’s pie. He can remember that it was delicious—or nearly. But he'd gotten used to the flavours by then.

And then—

“You’ve got to eat, Fred.”

The whole house smells like fresh buttered rolls; it’s nauseating.

“S’alright, Gin. I’m not hungry,” he mumbles—quiet enough that his mum won't hear—and if his sister knows he’s lying, she doesn’t say. She looks dubious, though, eyes narrowing before she turns back to her own plate.

He’s _starving._ He’s been starving for months, but he can’t eat, and he can’t explain why. Everything turns to ash in his mouth, if he can permit himself to be hyperbolic about the issue. Where once meals at his mother's table had tasted like home, like happiness, now everything tastes like grief.

The scuffed, old table is the same as it ever was, but the people gathered around it have changed in a multitude of ways. His mum—matriarch, keeper of the table, and beating heart of the Burrow—is inattentive to her husband's babble, and says little as she doles out plates of food. Even George is quiet.

Harry’s there, of course, which is _something_ to distract them all—but Granger is absent this evening. Then again, she doesn’t come by as much as she used to, which is just as well. They, none of them, are good company.

He’s been diligently scooping small helpings of food onto his plate, for appearance’s sake. He hates to waste it, but if he doesn’t, his mum worries. He takes little half-bites, teeth breaking the skin of a turnip before returning it to the plate; bitter flavours abound. The ham hock tastes like it’s gone off. He gives up on taking tiny, unenthusiastic nibbles before much time has passed, instead watching the table’s occupants as _they_ eat.

At first, it seemed like everybody shared his total loss of interest in food. Grief, it appeared, turned more than just _his_ stomach. But that had come and gone relatively quickly; the deprivation of the past months left everyone all too eager for home-cooked meals and the comfort of familiar fare. He'd watched his youngest brother and his two friends pack it in especially, eating gratefully and often, slowly regaining the weight that had been whittled away by months on the run.

And he'd been glad for them. _Really_. They'd gone through too much for him to begrudge them their uncomplicated spoonfuls of soup, their satisfied expressions when their bellies were full. Watching Granger eat was particularly fascinating, as she fussed like a bird over her plate—eating a little of everything, ensuring she didn't make herself ill.

He had a funny feeling she'd deprived herself the most, taken the burden of hunger upon herself, to ensure that the other two ate.

It made his stomach boil.

Bill is stoic, and Fleur looks exhausted. It’s close to a full moon, so neither of them can be blamed for their lack of conversation. Harry makes attempts, most of which flounder. He sits next to Ginny, his body rigid and eyes glazed with worry until she places a hand on his arm.

Percy’s seat is empty.

Through the lump in his throat, Fred swallows.

He’s about to get up—ask if he can be excused, like he’s ten years old again, though he was never that polite as a ten-year-old—when there’s a rushing sound in the Floo.

“Hullo?” his father calls, ears perking up like an old guard dog, even while he holds a roll in both hands. Very threatening.

Granger’s voice precedes her around the corner. “Sorry I’m late!” When she does appear, her arms are wrapped around something—something oblong, plate-shaped. It probably _is_ a plate, based on the scent that begins to reach over the table: burnt sugar and hot, sticky chocolate; his stomach folds in on itself, and he wishes more than anything that he could just… just be _normal_ for once.

“Never mind, dear, you’re here now. Do you need—”

His mum rushes to stand up, but Granger darts around the table and plants a kiss on her cheek, one hand firmly on the older witch's shoulder to keep her sitting. He shakes his head with a suppressed not-quite-smile; she's a brave one, bossing his mum around in her own house, even subtly.

Granger seems aware of this and smiles apologetically, motioning with the unwieldy object in her arms. “No need to get up, Molly. I forgot to preheat the oven, and then I misread the recipe—I didn’t realize how long baking _takes._ ” She's not normally a self-deprecating person, but it feels an awful lot like she’s ceding to his mum’s greater culinary experience—and small wonder. Cooking and baking are _her domain._ “But I made cookies,” the little witch adds, lips spreading a bit wider as she uncovers the massive plate. “With extra chocolate chips.”

“Wicked!” George immediately reaches out a hand toward the tray, which Granger promptly slaps away.

“They’re not for—not for right now,” she says, with the firm tone that’s guided several academic careers and more than one life-saving mission. “They’re for… dessert.”

Her eyes flick to his, but it’s brief—too brief for the look to be named or understood.

“Hermione, how did you get Kreacher to let you in the kitchen?” Harry asks, looking skeptically up over his glass of pumpkin juice. "I thought he warded the doors against you after last time."

She shrugs. “We cut a deal.”

“A deal?"

The whole table looks at him, forks paused before mouths.

Surely, Fred reasons, it isn’t _that_ strange for him to talk at dinner. He’s been a bit quiet lately, maybe, but there’s no reason for them all to look so surprised. Ginny’s lips are tilted in an odd way.

Even Granger’s eyes are wide as dinner plates. But she’s quick on her feet, recovering in the space of a blink. “I used double the amount of dishes I needed. Dirtied up a whole mountain of them. And then,” she admits, biting down on her lip in a way that can't possibly taste _or_ feel good, “I didn’t clean them.”

She _didn't clean them?_

He laughs. Sudden and quick, and his ribs seem to hollow with the sensation. Stale air finally leaving his lungs.

"What a noble sacrifice," he teases.

"Really, a brilliant bit of negotiating," George adds, and Fred feels grateful, suddenly, that he has this to fall back on. Their back-and-forth twin-speak has rescued him many a time when he felt at a loss for words.

"Could've used you 'round the house growing up." Fred shoots an impish grin in the direction of his mum, who still looks a bit stricken. "Don't worry, Mum, Granger's on dish-dirtying duty."

At his admittedly poor joke, her eyebrows shoot skyward. "Gracious, I hardly need help with _that_ —not with you boys around." But there's that twitch of a just-suppressed smile that makes him realize how much he's _missed_ making people laugh.

Sure, he works in a joke shop and that's sort of the whole point—bringing smiles to faces and such-like—but he's spent so much time in the workroom lately, developing products instead of selling them. It feels more productive back there—keeps him from moping 'round the shop floor. It's hard, after all, to pitch someone a prank when you're up to your ears in guilt and misery.

Well-earned guilt and misery.

The reminder stops his smile in its tracks, and he turns his eyes to the table—to the spread of inedible food on it. _Percy,_ he thinks. _Percy should be here. Not me._

He isn't sure how dinner goes after that.

He feels really and properly ill by the time his mum, Fleur, and Harry—always Harry, trying to earn his place, even after all these years—start clearing the table. Everyone else sits contentedly, nursing their ice-cold butterbeers while he takes miniscule sips of pumpkin juice. Alcohol just sours in his stomach these days, so he doesn't drink.

Another thing he's lost. He used to be better able to handle the complexities of vittles that were mass-produced and mass-bottled—riddled through as they were with different flavours and feelings. Now, on good days, he roasts the pumpkin and makes the juice himself, and even that is hit or miss.

"Would you," comes a voice, uncertain and beside him, "would you like one?" Once again, he is struck by Granger's oddness this evening. He's never known her to be hesitant, but when he looks up from the wood grain, eyes dull and blurred from too long spent staring, she's peering down with an uncertain look. "Chocolate chip," she adds, lips hitching at the corner.

"So I heard," he teases. And then he decides to try one; it's just as well, he's used to choking unhappy flavours down, throat closing around the sharp tang of worry—and she looks so eager. "Sure, why not," he mutters, more to himself than to her. Reaching toward the plate, he is gratified by her sudden smile, a sunburst bright enough to light his side of the table.

She's an odd witch, that Granger.

"Take this one," she insists suddenly, pointing at a very specific cookie at the top-ish of the rather generous mountain. "Some of the others are burnt. I'm really not a very good baker." She looks like she might start avidly blushing at any moment.

"I'm sure they're fine," he says—he's sure they'd all taste the same to him, like sorrow and nausea, but there's no need to say _that._ Instead, he obediently takes the recommended cookie.

The chocolate chips are nearly liquified, immediately melting against his warm fingertips. He'll be sticky and smeared, and he hates to think about having to lick off the excess. Tasting his own too-salty, desperately sad skin underneath…

It had once been his favorite part—licking his fingers. Stealing the spoon. He frowns. _Too late to worry about that now._

Remembering that Granger is still watching with that keenness, with that strange light in her eyes, he braces himself and takes a bite.

_Oh._

That's his first thought—nothing coherent so much as an unexpected burst of… of _something_ , creeping over him like warm honey. It tastes—

It tastes _good_ , actually. There are so many chocolate chips that the cookie itself is no more than mortar holding the gooey, slightly charred mass together, but there's something about the way it's all combined—something effortlessly delicious. And there's a flavour he can't put his finger on, lurking somewhere underneath the familiar taste of vanilla and sugar: something warm.

Much warmer than the melting chocolate. The muscles of his stomach turn to liquid, relieved at the prospect of food that won't make him feel ill. His mouth goes slack as he takes another curious bite.

Warm. Warm, warm _, warm_. So _good._

He doesn't have the time or the capacity to analyze why _this,_ why _now,_ why _Granger_ of all people, but he takes the cookie down in steady bites, hardly aware of himself as he licks his fingers. The bite of salt-skin-sad isn't enough to drown out the overwhelmingly pleasant flavour of earthy chocolate and good sentiment.

He looks up at Granger, meeting her wide eyes. He's never noticed how brown they were before. Not quite the color of chocolate—but richer and more subtle than something like whiskey or horse chestnuts. He can't form a comparison. And they have an opaque, soft quality that her sharp mind and occasionally sharper tongue can't hide. Fred cocks his head and reaches out for the tray. "Can I have another one?"

He only realizes Granger's been holding her breath when she finally speaks—almost sighs—her reply:

"Of course."

Grinning, he eats another. Chocolate. Vanilla, just a hint of salt. Something gentle and sweet. Warmth. He hums pleasantly. One bite, two bites—it's gone entirely too soon, a bit crispier this time. He can taste the subtle char, but it doesn't have the usual touch of tension that comes with overcooked food. That flavour, that _feeling_ he can't name, is pervasive throughout.

It feels so _good_ to eat.

Eating something so undeniably delicious after so long… Fred feels insatiable. His stomach, now alerted to this exciting new digestive opportunity, rumbles. He's actually, properly _hungry._ It's such an overwhelming feeling that he doesn't ask for permission again, instead reaching back up and plucking several cookies off of the massive plate. Melted chocolate smears down his thumb, staining the pad of his palm. And Granger looks nothing but pleased, so tremendously pleased that he can nearly make out what she'd taste like if he snatched her finger and shoved it between his lips.

_What?_

But he doesn't. Because he can't. Because they're at his family's kitchen table.

 _What?!_ His mind grinds to an unceremonious halt.

"These are quite amazingly edible, Granger," he says with false lightness, shaking away the unwanted thoughts swirling in his head. "You should give yourself more credit." The little witch beams.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron pipes up from across the table. "What'd you put in those? Love potion? I haven't seen Fred eat something that fast in years."

 _Love potion._ He almost laughs. No, they don't taste at all like _that_ —saccharine and false.

Granger's eyes narrow and flash so fast that Fred almost misses the flame in them, lighting up her eyes like sun coming through a stained-glass window. "Love potion," she scoffs. "Honestly, Ronald. _You're_ one to talk." But when she glances back, she is blushing. Granger's voice lowers, sternness smoothed away. "Would you like another? If, you know, you're not worried I've dosed you with something." Those brown eyes roll, lashes fluttering.

Fred grins. He wants to say, _"Do you know that I can still taste your kindness on my tongue?"_ and _"You can dose me with anything you like, so long as you promise to bake me cookies for the rest of my life,"_ but he doesn't say anything.

He takes three more cookies, though.

Her back is bent over the kitchen sink, rinsing off her sunflower-yellow plate, now divested of its offerings. All eaten, of course, and he's not even slightly ashamed to say that he is largely responsible. In fact, the sugar high makes him feel energetic, mischievous, almost like his old self again, like he hasn't since Percy's death.

Nobody else around the table had been _remotely_ as enthusiastic about the cookies—George, to his credit, had eaten one with a cheerful wink and a grin that held, even when one particularly burnt morsel cracked loudly between his teeth; Ron had thanked Granger, but winced with every bite, making it painfully apparent that the dessert did not impress.

The rest of the table had been much the same—polite thanks, muffled crunching and chewing, and only a few requests for seconds. It was pretty hard to make that much chocolate inedible, to his way of thinking, but his family was perhaps used to his mum's decades of baking ability.

And he knows—has always known—that they don’t taste things the same way he does.

They can’t taste the good feeling, the fondness, the familiarity in home-made things. They can't taste… whatever it was that Granger had all but suffused her baked goods in. He still can't work out _what_ the feeling is, only that it's sticking with him, carrying him weightlessly into the kitchen.

"Need any help?"

His voice startles her—he can tell. Her shoulders tighten, and one sudsy hand flies up out of the water. But she lowers it again with a shake of her curly head. "No," she answers, soft-spoken and nearly lost under the sound of the tap.

The curve of her cheek is pink. He thinks of peaches and cream, and then shoves the thought away.

"What, Kreacher wouldn't let you do your own dishes, so now you feel the need to do all of ours?" She doesn't deny it, only tosses her hair back over one shoulder; it's frizzed by humidity, and an opalescent soap bubble rests precariously on one curl. "You're a strange witch," he says, hoping that his good humor takes some of the sting out of his words.

Dry, flat, she says, "So I've been told."

"That's a compliment, actually. You're a decent baker, too." Fred wanders further into the kitchen, taking advantage of her back being to him. Gryffindor-red jumper, heavy knit and loose. Denims, Muggle ones with a high waist. And she's barefoot, because the Burrow is always over-warm when it's full of people, even in autumn.

"There's no need to lie, Fred," she says, the huff of a laugh on the end of his name. He can't recall hearing her say it before; he knows he must've done. But he likes how she says it now. "It was really just an experiment."

He pauses. "To see if I'd eat them?"

She stops. Shuts the tap off. Methodically, Granger dries her hands on a spare tea towel, and then rubs her palms against the pale denim covering her thighs. Her fingers are red from soap and scrubbing. He's willing to bet they'd be hot to the touch.

"Yes."

"Why?"

She ducks her chin, evasive. A curl sticks to her cheek, where she must have splattered herself with water. "You need to eat, that's why," she says stubbornly. "You're getting too thin. I thought that maybe… the food your mum made carried too much baggage. Reminded you of—"

Her voice stalls.

"Go on, then."

"Of all you've lost. And I thought—well, _we_ don't have any baggage. We hardly know one another."

"Arguable," he shrugs, stepping closer. "But go on."

"That's it, really." Granger pulls her bottom lip between her teeth again—dreadful habit. She looks even more uncertain when he takes another step. "I didn't… do anything to them, you know. No potions or additives of any kind. Just a recipe I got out of a book and then… and then bollocksed up. I just—I hoped—"

_That's it._

The feeling comes back, clear as day. An effervescent, sun-dappled emotion: _hope._

"I could tell," he says, and maybe that's the wrong thing to say, because her lips purse. "And you were right, my mum's cooking… well, it's the best in the world, as far as I'm concerned," and they share a small smile at that, "but all I've been able to taste these past few months—"

"—is grief."

His heart suddenly speeds in his chest, booming up his throat and closing it. How does she know? _How could she possibly know?_

Granger's face is set in a gentle expression, doe eyes glinting up at him. She's always been pretty, in her way, and he's always known it, but it's seemed relatively inconsequential until right this moment. Because she appears to understand something about him that no one else does. Not even his mother, his siblings, his own _twin._

Carefully, he asks, "Can you taste it too?"

"No," she replies, and a sigh seeps out of him before he can prevent it. Shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry. I just—that is, I read about this phenomenon once, there was this woman in Wales who starved to death," she continues, gearing up for one of her uniquely swotty, passionate rants, "because she couldn't bear eating the food people made for her. She said she could taste their feelings—'their bitter sorrows and their saccharine joys.' It was—"

Granger's throat works around the words she's trying to say, and he swallows in sympathy. "It was torture for her, always having insight into how people were feeling. Having to _taste_ their emotions. It didn’t matter that the anger or the sadness or the fear wasn’t directed at her; she still had to _feel_ it. And so, the woman was, apparently, institutionalized—this was before St. Mungo's, of course, but she couldn't stay at home, where she was being fed her mother's increasingly unpalatable emotions—and she died there—"

Her words make his stomach churn. "You think I'm mad."

"No!" she bursts out, too loud. Her eyes leap up, and they're burning. "Of course not. I think you're brilliant. I just had this feeling. Your eating habits have always been peculiar..."

"So, we don't know each other, but you know my eating habits." He doesn't even attempt to hide his amusement. "Granger, you realize how daft you sound."

She nods, dark curls bobbing madly about her shoulders. “I know, of course I know, but—well, I guess I wanted to tell you that you’re not strange or wrong or anything. I’ve done some research, and people like you are rare, but not unheard of. And really, the major factor in ensuring you have a healthy, happy life is maintaining a steady diet—of positive emotions, you see? Not just fruits and vegetables and things. And I thought,” she prattles on, and he suddenly realizes that she’s _nervous_ , that what’s got her bouncing up on her bare toes and biting sharply into her bottom lip is _worry_. What in the name of Merlin does she have to be afraid of? “Well, since you and I don’t really know one another—”

“Stop _saying_ that,” he huffs in exasperation. “You make it sound like we’re strangers! Strangers don’t make other strangers special happiness cookies!”

At that, she stills. “You could taste that, then?”

“Of course I could. They were full of… of _good_ emotions,” he gulps. “It was such a relief, I almost cried, Granger—honestly, I did.”

“Well, there’s no such thing as a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ emotion, of course," she corrects, " but if you’ve been subjected to overwhelmingly negative feelings for months—”

Before she can go on another tangent, she stops.

“What else could you taste?” The curiosity in her voice is familiar, and he wants to roll his eyes at the way the point is soaring over her head— _you know me better than you think._

But he knows her, too.

Whether she believes it or not, he’s known her all his life. And he understands that, while her motives may have been almost entirely pure, her quick, analytical mind will want as much data out of this experience as possible.

"I tasted a fair bit of happiness, and something like fondness—like when you're talking to an old friend." He pauses to stare at her, wondering if she'll catch on. She just seems intensely curious. "I tasted hope. That was what… that was the one—I couldn't place."

He sees the flicker of sorrow in her eyes. It is so present, so very _there_ at the forefront of everything, and he wonders how he's missed it all these years: how expressive her eyes are. How much they say when her mouth is closed. He steps forward again, letting the space between them fall to nearly nothing. Her head has to tilt back to keep eye contact.

"What—" but she stops. Swallows. "What else?"

Her voice is soft, almost stammering. So uncertain. His hand rises, independent of thought or will, to touch her face. The curve of her cheek is flushed and softer than velvet. And his thumb brushes over the swell of her bottom lip, pulling it from between her teeth.

"Hermione," he breathes. "You could've said."

They are close enough that he can see her pulse, where it hurries in her neck to bring blood to her beautiful brain. Close enough that he can see her pupils dilating, black swallowing brown. Close enough that he can't imagine how he _didn't_ see before.

"What else?" she asks, shifting against the sink. Her breath is warm against his thumb.

The flavour she is asking about is one he's so intimately familiar with, something given to him all his life—often smothered by other, conflicting flavours, and not always clear. But the subtle sweetness of it is unmistakable, even when it's drowned in chocolate.

"Love," he says. "I tasted love."

Watching her expression shift is fascinating: from fear, to hope, to embarrassment. And then to something brazen as she realizes she apparently has nothing to lose. He remains still as she lifts onto the very tips of her toes, hands sliding up the front of his shirt. They _are_ warm, and warmer still when they curl around the back of his neck.

And so are her lips, when they meet his.

The moment he opens his mouth, he can taste everything—bright, tart anxiety; the subdued taste of easy pleasure; something hot like want. Top notes of hope, and love, and Hermione _,_ which is a flavour that he has very little understanding of or experience with, but that he finds utterly fascinating. Layered and complex and delicious and well worth the tasting.

He decides, then and there, that he would like to have it—all of it, _her_ —again.

He does. Often. And for always.

The flavors of her become a facet of every meal they make together, of every kiss. They infuse his memories: the ones he struggles to accept, the ones he can hardly remember creating, and the new ones, still forming every day. Life is spread out around him like a buffet, and her flavor is everywhere—deep, hopeful, loving. Sweet, tart, complex.

She gets better at baking. He gets better at living. They both get quite adept at loving.

And no matter how much time passes, he remains ravenous.


End file.
